"Will he never come? we shall lose the tide;

His berth is trim and his cabin stored:
He's a weary long time coming on board."

The old man struggled upon the bed:
He knew the words that the voices said; 10
Wildly he shrieked as his eyes grew dim,
"He was dead! he was dead! when I
buried him."

Hark yet again to the devilish roar: "He was nimbler once with a ship on shore;

Come! come! old man, 'tis a vain delay, 15
We must make the offing by break of day."

Hard was the struggle; but at the last,
With a stormy pang, old Mawgan past:
And away, away, beneath their sight,
Gleamed the red sail at pitch of night.

If you vrom Wimborne took your road
To Stower or Paladore,

An' all the farmers' housen show'd
Their daughters at the door,
You'd cry to bachelors at hwome:
"Here, come! 'ithin an hour

You'll vind ten maïdens to your mind,
In Blackmwore by the Stour."